3 Poems about Hands, by Sue Norvell, Sara Robbins, Donna Holt

My Hands, by Sue Norvell

The index fingers twist 

improbably —

the little finger joints 

warp south.

They are

my grandmother's hands

my father's hands 

my hands.

I am reminded 

of bread baked 

seams sewn

hair smoothed 

tears soothed.

My hands 

reflect my years

but they remember 

our past.

Fingers, by Sara Robbins

I remember your hands — large and thick,

nails bitten down to the quick.

You told me, when you were younger

your mother had tried to keep you from

the nasty habit — she'd painted something

bitter on your nails — to no avail.

Here you were, 17, still biting.

I held your hand in mine.

"Give me your hand," I'd say,

and then you didn't bite.

Your littlest sister said you had

loafy fingers and she was right.

She also said you had big teeth.

Loafy fingers and big teeth — an

unfiltered Camel cigarette held in your

right hand, me holding your left hand —

a speck of tobacco on your front tooth

which I pick off with my then-pretty hand.

This detail so clear in my memory.

Your loafy fingers in mine, our kiss

tasting of smoke.

Opposable Queens, by Donna Holt

Thenar Eminences —

pleasure to make your acquaintance,

dear Graces. 

My apologies,

for taking your gifts for granted,

neglecting to give thanks for the countless ways 

you make my daily life easier —

jar tops

socks & shoelaces

doorknobs

origami paper

tick removal

knotted muscles

ignition keys

a single almond or raisin —

how would I manage these

without your benevolent presence?

Thank you, your Highnesses

for working your magic

day after day

despite my ignorance of

your royal nature. 

And to think I called you thumbs. 

Great Grandma Bond’s Hands, by Peggy Adams

My right thumb has begun to warn me. Maybe once a week it protests — I pick up a skillet or unscrew a jar of pickles, and my thumb shrieks in pain. Nothing special, but it’s a signal. Bone on bone, my doctor says. As we age, the cushion of cartilage thins, and bone scrapes bone.

My great grandmother, Orah Belle Tuttle Bond, was born on October 15, 1871. She lived in Guernsey County, Ohio, for 101 years. I loved watching her hands, two motions in particular. The first — stringing beans. She’d sit with a bowl of green beans and a colander — with her thumb and index finger she’d top and tail the beans, snapping off the tail, then pulling the string down from the top, unzipping the bean. She’d put them in a big pot of water with a hunk of ham from her smokehouse, and then she’d let those beans boil — delicious!

The second hand movement — we’d cross the road to the barn, where she’d pick up a chicken, and in the blink of my eye, she’d snap its neck. I see her flashing hands, the odd angle of the bird’s broken neck, and then the flurry of rusty feathers as she plucked the chicken. A scary, mesmerizing start to a great chicken dinner.

Grandma Bond’s hands became gnarled, her fingers thick at the joints. She never said so, but I imagine they ached. In her eighties, the backs of her hands showed ropey blue veins under splotchy brown liver spots. Her hands looked like maps, rivers branching, valleys in between.

In her nineties, the ropiness gave way to swelling, the brown mottled skin on the back of her hands stretched taut and shiny. Her bones and veins were less visible, and her hands looked tight, the backs squared off. I remember watching her struggle with the black iron latch on a cupboard door, but her hands never failed her. 

She lived alone in a little apartment across from my Aunt Emma’s house in Old Washington. Her hands always served her — even at one hundred, she could make my father’s favorite coconut custard pie; she could reach out to touch her great-great-grandchild’s cheek.

Thinking About Hands, by Linda Keeler

Two tiny hands exploring

        Fingers feeling textures

        Turning pages of a book

Grasping hands

        Holding tight to tables, toys, and Gramma’s glasses

Hands that wave, bending at the knuckles, a baby smiles

Proud hands clapping soundlessly

Supporting hands

        Holding up his body weight

        Leading the forward crawl

Delicate fingers

        Gently reaching for the green leaf, the blade of grass

Nimble fingers

        Picking up the penny, no, no!

        Now, picking up the cheerio

        Pulling strings, making music

Bright red fingers pinched in the cupboard door

        Tears of surprise, tears of pain

Two tiny hands,

Reaching for the world

*** *** *** 

hands slipped into white cotton gloves

Sunday mornings

long ago

I’ll write it down

so I don’t forget

ink on palm

*** *** ***

       

“A hermit crab!  I want a hermit crab!”  

For a nine year old, no vacation at the beach is complete without this take-home souvenir. A trip to the boardwalk; the happy boy carefully carrying the cage.

Back home the new pet becomes part of the routine — feedings, playtime, crab gazing.  Then one day, the scream! A race up the stairs.  The boy is sitting on the bed, his hand is out flat.  He looks like he is offering the hermit crab.  

“It won’t let go!” he yells and yells again.

        

We pry and poke — no luck. The creature holds tight.

        

We put the palm under water, cold and hot.  The creature holds tight.

        

We hit the shell. The creature holds tight.

At long last (I can’t remember exactly why) the crab lets go.  All that’s left is a painful red welt in the tender skin.

       

Not many days later a decision is made. “I’m going to give that hermit crab away, to Scott,” he announces at the dinner table.  The paraphernalia is packed up.  But where’s the boy?  Ah, here he comes now.  He ties the paper he’s carrying to the cage.  It reads, in bold red letters

                          

Do Not Put Crab in Palm of Hand!!

What's Going On? A Collective List

What ingredients would be listed on your personal label?

Where did my "get up and go" go? 

Is dirt the end or the beginning?

Can I find Google map directions from sad to happy? How about from current location to fulfillment?

When people vow to stick together through thick and thin, which do they think of as the good times — the thick or the thin?

How does a rock rock?

When was the last time a star bucked?

Was it something I said?

Were you there when it happened?

If the water is too deep, how will we find our way home?

Now that you’ve been wearing the pebbles in your shoes for so long, how will it feel when you take them out?

Is it a sign when pennies fall in crooked waves rather than straight down?

On a windy day, how can we keep our mittens safe?

Why do most women seem to like clothing made by the Flax company, and most men don't?

Why does hearing Bob Marly sing make me want to dance around my place with no clothes on?

How many times do I have to say "I love you" and not mean it? 

What was the weather like when helter met skelter? 

Where exactly did the planet Pluto go? 

Why is Tuesday? 

Which color lied when asked about its intention? 

What is the best time of year to aribregadankexi?

How many heartbeats can you fit on the head of a pin? 

How many books are too many books to own?

Can ants see the stars in the sky?

How come I don't have to remember to breathe?

Why can't we sprinkle magic dust on everything?

Why is it so hard to change a bad habit?

How do I show up to meet the universe?

Can fish and flowers hear?

Why did my mother tell me to say I was "either 3 or 4," if asked, when I knew for an absolutely fact that I was 3.

How do we rediscover empathy?

Are we there yet?

Which poses the greatest risk, caring or not caring?

Why do we say we "feel blue" when we're sad?  

Will you come for tea?

What would happen if your eyelashes got hopelessly entangled?

Is there one place left on Earth that a human has never seen or touched?

If you had chocolate toes, would they melt in the summer?

What percent of the dead are happy with the way we remember them?

How do I find pictures of people who never existed?

What must it be like, not being me?

If looks could kill, who would survive?

How much is too much?

When are they going to make the movie of my life — and who will play me?

What is the best dream you ever had?

At what point do you become "lost" in a book?

If you could talk to your heart, what would be the first question you'd ask?

Is anyone listening?

Are your closest friends younger or older than you are?

What if I am not enough?

Why are some colors considered neutral, as if you can't really see them?

Why are some people good at telling jokes and some aren't?

Is there a reason why both days in the weekend start with the letter S?

What is the most important numeral?

Why is ivy admired but bindweed is vilified?

Were people more cheerful in the past?

Can you re-write your memories by telling a story the way you want it to be?

Who would I be if I were a more optimistic person?

Is there anyone who has never laughed?

How many different shades of orange are there?

Can I die contentedly?

How could I possibly have forgotten that?

Which way should I go?

Where is my true love/ soulmate?

Will humans go the way of dinosaurs?

What kind of person am I becoming?

What to eat?

How many lies have you told today?

Whose moustache is this?

Why are daisies such terrible gossips?

Do you see what I see?

Can you make time stop by holding your breath?

When did you give up on counting your freckles?

What is the most annoying thing?

What would you rather use instead of ink?

Why raspberry seeds?

Did you ever try to rest your right ear on your left shoulder?

Is there ever enough purple?

When is the last time you rode off into the sunset?

When did you first realize I was a bird?

What was your first embarrassment?

What have you got to lose?

What was that thought?

What haven't you noticed in the last 20 years?

Why can't I think of any questions?

THANK YOU to all these fine questioners:

Amanda Coate

Ana Ramanujan

Barbara Force

Carla DeMello

Deanalis Resto

Diana Kreutzer

Edna Brown

Emily Coon

Gabrielle Vehar

Karen Koyanagi

Lottie Sweeney

Lynne Taetzsch

Margaret Dennis

Nancy Gabriel

Naomi Trevelyan

Natalie Detert

Olivia Moreland

Peggy Stevens

Phoebe Shalloway

Phoebe Lakin

Priscilla Walker

Rachel-Elizabeth Frank

Rose Pinnisi

Sarabeth Matilsky

Sherron Brown

Sue Norvell

Sue Perlgut

Sylvia Taylor

Virginia Fenton

Weiwei Luo

Yvette Rubio

Zee Zahava

A Dictionary of Oddities and Peculiarities, by 13 young writers

Compiled by Amanda, Ana, Caroline, Josh, Karina, Olivia, Phoebe L, Phoebe S, Rachel-Elizabeth, Rose, Seraphina, Sophia, and Weiwei on Wednesday, October 10, 2012, in the TEENS WRITE! workshop at the Tompkins County Public Library

This dictionary frequently contains multiple definitions, since various sources have been consulted in the preparation of the document, and the compilers are not taking sides.

aloooki A guava smoothie; A sub-species of chicken: A dancing bear

brozar A part of the inside of a trumpet; The pattern of rings on a rat's tail

clomarak The noise made by a tennis ball as it is thrown into a plastic tub; The last sound a tortoise makes in its lifetime; A cousin of the well-known anorak coat, distinguised by its detailed pocket watch pockets and extensive buttonry

devi-riri-fifi The sort of broo-ha-ha caused by a very posh woman as she seeks to reclaim her runaway poodle

emtobbelle A tiny french ocarina; transitive verb meaning to fall over, often in a humorous manner

fostirique Melted snow; A fuzzy hat; A perfume line that reached the height of its popularity in the Middle Ages

gamriloxx A gremlin that aspires to a career in theatre, film, or comedy

hojinaatter A Dutch variant of purple chrysanthemums; A frustrated exclamation in native Polar Bear, literally meaning "nothing is working"

iyiy When ivy grows sideways

joniswoop A bird with blue feet; A high Victorian collar worn by Hungarian countesses on the morning of their wedding days

kivanchi A not-so-tall mountain that should really be called a hill; An exotic alien form of kiwi

luwkin One of the 19 breeds of unicorn; A word for your kin if they are more lowly than you; a squid spread that can be eaten on crackers

min-min-minski A super-short skirt

nusko A new type of peanut; The smell of wood smoke in rain

oolybip An Irish dance step; raindrops that drip onto someone from an awning; A singular shoe

pytz A milkman; A toxic flower; The candlewax which has run down the side of the candle

quwit Little brothers; A bobby pin that has gotten hopelessly snagged in one's rat nest of a head

rokkor A giant flying pig; An onomatopoeic palindrome

shrrrrrrrrooo A hybrid beaver-cow

tink The fear of twilight and/or green fairies

ulmow A large green slug; A ukelele; A lawn mower

vivizeke A mutant grasshopper

wirpquaggle When you get into an argument with a duck; The icky feeling of soggy mud, when it's too soft to even stick to your fingers; When a dog can't stop wriggling

xleemu A very small lemur that has a curled tail that can't uncurl

yoiks A form of candy that grows only in underground caves in the tropics; An exclamation used to signify distress, joy, anger or surprise

zepto-bemento A magicke spell that sets things on fire

Monster Poem, by 9 young writers

!!MONSTER POEM!!

by Ana, Caroline, Karina, Logan, Olivia, Phoebe, Seraphina, Sophia, WeiWei

This collaborative Monster Poem was written by some of the members of the "TEENS WRITE!" group, on Wednesday, October 3, 2012, in the Tompkins County Public Library. This program is made possible by the Tompkins County Public Library Foundation, through the generous gifts of Carrie Shearer and Suzanne Spitz.

Monster, your head is white and bony like a skull, protruding from your boulder-like shoulders. It is full of empty space — it wobbles and topples and clinks and clanks. 

If we mowed your eyebrows into a hedge maze, everyone would get lost in there.

Your eyes remind me of the offspring of a snake and a cat: don't look at me like that! At night your eyes gleam like two bright moons, too high to ever reach. They shine like stars — but stars burn if you get too close.

Monster, your breath smells like my dog's, only 2,000 times worse. It smells like blood and pepperoni.

Your nose is like a thread from Little Red Riding Hood's cloak. It has a lump on it that looks like a toad. And your cheeks are flushed a sickly green.

Your teeth look like a smashed school bus, bright gold and irregularly shaped, broken and cratery. 

Inside the cave of your mouth, smelly yellow stalactites gnash against halagmites.

Your tongue is purple, about a foot long, and covered in hideous warts.

Monster, your voice sounds like an angry snake singing a duet with a moose that has been diagnosed with consumption, pneumonia and leprosy. It sounds like really bad heavy metal music, booming from your mouth (which is the size of a pea). 

Your smile is sarcastic and sinister, gaping and crescent shaped.

When your stomach rumbles, all the animals flee their nests & hollows & dens & perches, for fear of an earthquake. Yet your stomach is too small to fit a pebble.

You arms are thick people-smashers, like some out of control machine. Those gorilla arms of yours sprout from your waist.

Your hands are stained with dark red blood and your fingernails are long sheets of dirty ice.

Your legs, in pairs of 5, stick out of your chest at weird angles. 

Your feet have dark claws that clatter on the floor. How do you walk on feet that are so incredibly tiny?

Your sorrow overwhelms your love; your appetite overwhelms your beauty.

Your heart is probably good, despite the rude things everyone says about you.

Pantone 152: This is my Dream House, by Barbara Cartwright

“Peaches, apples, plums, pears, apricots.” He says it once and then again because someone didn’t hear it the first time. “This is where we plant peaches, apples, plums, pears, apricots.”

Always the same order. An incantation. The rise and fall of his voice. The birth of the fruit. Then the harvest. They plant the seed, water the tree, watch it grow. Do it again. And do it again. Peaches, apples, plums, pears, apricots.

He is our guide, Benjamin, and he is leading us through Canyon de Chelly — an enormous chasm that opens out of the landscape, just past the Best Western and the Holiday Inn, to take us deep, deep, deep into the past, into the hidden mysteries of Nature. It is so glorious. The rocks are sun-soaked. Orangey red. Is it Pantone 152 perhaps? Sheer here. Bulbous there. With glades of trees at the base. And a meandering sand bed, once a river — a torrent of water (Now you see it, now you don’t) — that brings particulate matter from further north and deposits it here. Over and over again.

It is tough going for our Jeep. But not impossible. Would that we were on horseback. But after many hours on a motorcycle, that is not so appealing.

Peaches, apples, plums, pears, apricots. It seems impossible. How does one grow such exotic fruits in this parsimonious soil? How does one reconcile all that fecundity with the cold hard abandoned surfaces of the Anasasi cliff dwellings whose remains are nestled in hollowed out cavities of rock a third of the way up these walls? That’s where Benjamin’s ancestors lived in the centuries before his nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles — Benjamin is related to everyone — decided the cliff dwellings were too difficult to access and instead took up residence on the ground, in kivas and shade houses.

This, not that, is my dream house.

The red canyon rock surrounds us on all sides. We are swallowed up by it. But happy and content. Despite the fact that visitors are standing on the rim, looking down on us in our orangey red fishbowl, we feel safe and protected in the saturated quiet and stillness. We are in Nature’s arms, if you will.

The red rock canyon is not completely red. Where rain has dribbled and run and poured down on all sides, the red sand has melted away and exposed the black manganese lying just below the surface. “My mother called those rain marks hair,” says Benjamin, “Nature’s hair.” And now that he has said it, it is all we see. Tresses here. Strands there. Long black straight and shining. We shall see it again, the following day, in the beautiful waist-length hair of the Indian Ranger at the Canyon de Chelly Visitors’ Center.

The rock is not an it, I realize. The rock is a she. A woman, with feelings and thoughts and stories to tell.

“You see that rock over there?” It is a question Benjamin asks many times. And we always say yes, in eager anticipation of what will come next. "We call that Laughing Bear. We call that Sitting Duck. We call that Barking Dog." We hadn’t been thinking about the masses in quite that way, up until now, but from this moment on it’s impossible to stop.

Echoes of otherness everywhere we look. The abstract petroglyphs he shows us, using a shard of mirror to capture the Sun’s laser-like pointing finger, highlight lines and shapes. A snake? I see it now. Yes, a man on horseback. And isn’t that a figure 8? Infinity?Benjamin intones: "the two circles, stacked one on the other, is the Indian symbol for the place below the earth, from which we came, and the place above the ground, where we will spend the rest of our days."

Peaches, apples, plums, pears, apricots, I remind myself. Life to death. Death to life. The circle cannot be broken. At least we hope. Let us pray.

Days later, I drop a Mentos mint on the ground. You know that nasty habit they have of falling from the cylindrical wrapper just before you pop them in your mouth. I step on it. Squash it, just for fun. And it fractures along its mint-y fault lines to become a bear’s paw. A footprint in the sand. Benjamin would be proud of me. I am learning to read. I never would have noticed something like that before.

I am flying through Arizona and the Four Corners landscape on the back of a motorcycle — a passenger, not the driver. I have time on my hands, nothing to do but be in the moment, watch my thoughts rise and fall. And nothing to write on, nothing to capture these thoughts, but a cheap ball point pen stolen from the motel and my bare hands. It strikes me, not for the first time, that the west is nothing like the east. In the west, my thoughts roll; back home they roil. Here they undulate up through Benjamin’s figure 8 and back down. Up and over; over and down. In the east, back home, they erupt like petty volcanoes, rushing and spilling and making a mess.

I am at peace in this place. Is it sacred perhaps? Or just so very different from whence I’ve come. Peaches, apples, plums, pears, apricots. I am mesmerized. Caught in the spell of this alien landscape, this dry heat.